


Sway

by FancyPants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyPants/pseuds/FancyPants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Great Game. After having a bomb strapped to his chest, John Watson find's himself re-evaluating just how far he's willing to go to stand beside Sherlock Holmes. Inspired by Amy Kinley's Sherlock fanvideo "Sway" (On permanent hiatus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'll Stand by You

John sat in the cold lobby room of Scotland Yard. It had been only 2 hours since he was strapped to Moriarty’s bomb jacket and the tips of his fingers gently trembled as he languorously sipped at his dark cup of coffee in the white styrofoam cup. The coffee was stale, John figured they must have had that brew sitting since the afternoon, yet coffee hadn’t seemed this delicious in months. John observed the remaining officers still at work about the station, filing and typing away, rubbing their red eyes as their evening shifts lingered on.  
He glanced back toward Lestrade’s office and saw Sherlock still pacing impatiently as the detective inspector rubbed his temples and tired eyes. Anderson stood in the corner beside the doorway, arms crossed, reporting his own speculation on Sherlock’s and John’s experience. John shook his head and continued to nurse his now luke warm coffee as Sherlock stoically responded to the hawk nosed dunce, Lestrade raising his hand to moderate the dispute. Finally, Sherlock’s steps halted and he watched as Lestrade began typing the report.  
'It’s about time,' John thought to himself. 'I thought simply excusing myself would have had them get down to business, but clearly-'  
He stood, glad to feel his leg not acting up, and stepped over toward the office. As he did, he saw Anderson lash out once more and Sherlock’s eyes rise to only be locked on too John as he approached. John opened the door, trying to act cheerful as he entered the now awkwardly quiet room. Anderson looked to him, the ever persistent frown on his lips.  
“So,” John said with a tired and sarcastic smile. “You got everything you need Lestrade?”  
The detective rubbed the back of his neck, “Yes. I believe that is quite enough for now, John. You both should go home and rest; I’ll expect a thorough report later.”  
“That won’t be a problem.” The ex-army doctor shifted his legs a bit and looked up to Sherlock. “Let’s go then.”  
The consulting detective nodded slightly and began to step round the desk, only to come toe to toe with Anderson as he made his way to the door with John. The man looked at Sherlock with a familiar disgust and huffed in exasperation.  
“I look forward to that report. It’ll be impressive, seeing what lies you’ll have to create to make proof for these “events”. I really like the home-made bomb vest, that must have taken a good week to make.”  
The bridge of Sherlock’s nose scrunched into a snarl as he went to outdo Anderson with one last insult for the evening until the man was yanked away from him by John’s shaking fist around his tie. In a flash, John’s cold coffee had hit the carpet and Anderson’s face met the glass wall of the office. John had grasped and twisted Anderson’s arm firmly to his back, his jaw firm and breath jagged from the revisiting adrenaline running through his veins. He continued by grasping onto Anderson’s ringed finger, removing the band and tossing it across the room and placing his fingers back onto it, threatening to break it.  
At this point Lestrade had just stood up and was shouting, and Sherlock took but a half step back, watching his colleague command Anderson’s body with trained ease. John couldn’t make out Lestrade’s words, all he could hear was his breath, heart thumping in his ears, and Anderson’s pathetic whimper’s and curses.  
John spoke softly and with a practiced authority, enough to create fear in any grown man’s mind. “Don’t you ever make such false accusations toward Sherlock again. I just had that bomb vest strapped on to my body, and a gun aimed at my chest, don’t you dare criticize what we’ve reported tonight. It all happened, and if it weren’t for Sherlock’s life being threatened, I would have gladly snapped that man’s neck this evening.” John’s fingers stiffened on Anderson’s finger and twisted, nearly breaking it. A cry of fear came from the man. “Don’t make me use you in place of him.”  
With that, John released Anderson, turned his cheek and walked out the door. Sherlock stood still for a moment before following after John, his air of arrogance still intact. John was out of Scotland Yard, and hailing for a taxi before Anderson had a chance to slip the dulled wedding band back on his finger.

The taxi was a welcomed temporary refuge for John, and after a silent five minutes, Sherlock let out a much needed heavy sigh and chuckled deeply. John smiled at the sound.  
“Listen, I’m sorry, I just… I couldn’t help but reprove that moron. He’s had it coming for quite some time, and it was the wrong night for him to accuse you of those sort of ridiculous things.”  
Sherlock’s chuckle grew a bit louder as he muttered, “Quit practicing your speech for Lestrade to me, John.”  
John sighed, happy to feel his pulse finally slow to its usual pace. He laid his head back to be cushioned by the seat and shut his eyes. “Yeah, honestly, what am I saying? You must have enjoyed that tussle more than I did.”  
“I would be a close runner up, yes.” The consulting detective said, fixing his coat collar to lay flat on his trench coat. “You shouldn’t let that idiot get to you though, I had some choice words for him.”  
John nodded gently. “I just want to get home. It’s passed 3, I’m exhausted.”  
Sherlock shook his head, shifting more in his seat. “No, John. I can’t even fathom the thought of sleep right now. This game is far from over.”  
“Sherlock…” John muttered under his breath as he sat back up in his seat, looking to his friend. “That man… he’ll be back, right?”  
“I guarantee it, John.” Sherlock gently rubbed his upper lip with his right hand, John could already tell he was sorting out what deductions he must have gathered at the pool, of the man, Moriarty.  
John looked forward, his mind too spent to bother with any sort of intellectual assistance, so he simply offered what questions he had. “…When? How long do you think he’ll wait to attack one of us again?”  
“He’ll take his time.” Sherlock looked to John. “You must tell me everything you know, about him. When he kidnapped you, who he used to do it, how he did it, what words he said to you before I arrived, a-“  
“Sherlock.” John looked to him, his jaw set.  
There was a silence in the taxi until Sherlock tilted his head in a familiar innocence, “Not good?”  
“A bit not good.” John nodded. “At least not till I’ve had a nice hot cuppa, a decent rest, and a bath.”  
Sherlock’s bottom lip stiffened and he squirmed impatiently, kicking a leg up to set on the other, nearly curling into the corner of his side of the taxi. John smiled, looking out the window at the blurred street lights and cars. It truly was remarkable, the idea that Sherlock was the only person John could rely on to get through a near death experience and come out the other end joking and looking forward to the next one. It wasn’t easy though, and John was still terrified in his own right. He had been victimized by that lunatic, he was the pawn between Sherlock and Moriarty’s “game” and John knew that he would have to face up to that fact.  
‘I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.’ John repeated these words in his mind, and bit his lip.  
“What’s wrong?” A deep voice at John’s side asked.  
John looked to his flat mate, and was taken aback by the icy blue eyes that lingered directly into his own. John shook his head slightly, “It’s nothing.”  
“Come now, John, you haven’t said anything of importance since we entered Scotland Yard. Your pulse has finally rested and you just came out of a near death experience with a bomb fastened to your body, tell me something.”  
John looked to his friend, fists clenched together as he came to grips with the idea of asking Sherlock some difficult questions. John turned toward Sherlock, watching the pale face that seemed to be constantly unemotional and in different, but he had learned from this evening at the pool, what a mask it was. He remembered first stepping out of the lockers, onto the pool side, and facing Sherlock, revealing the contraption, and the cold clear terror that was undeniably splattered on Sherlock’s face.  
“No, Sherlock.” John sighed.  
Sherlock seemed taken aback, his bright eyes darkening as his brow furrowed. It wasn’t typical of John to refuse a request, let alone from Sherlock Holmes.  
“Not until you tell me the truth.” John watched as Sherlock’s face contorted in confusion. “When you saw me beside the pool, when I repeated Moriarty’s threats on my life, tell me what you felt.”  
“What good would that do, John?”  
“Well for one thing it would make me feel less like one of your puzzle pieces, and… I think it might shed some light onto exactly what that mad man is trying to get at.”  
John could tell he hit a cord with Sherlock as he watched him sit up as straight as a pole. Feelings were one of Sherlock’s least favorite topics, and John didn’t blame him, but this situation needed to be dealt with. Sherlock blinked, clearly trying to express what John needed from him.  
“Well… I mean… it’s all quite obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock sniffed, almost to himself.  
“Not to me.” The ex-army doctor gently murmured. Sherlock never spoke of his emotions, he didn’t even understand the need to have them, but he still was human.  
“I was concerned for you.”  
This triggered a dramatic eye role from John. “Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.” He drawled out sarcastically. “Really, Sherlock, just tell me.”  
He watched as Sherlock’s jaw rocked in irritation. “When I first saw you, I felt cheated.” John’s brows raised in surprise as Sherlock continued. “Moriarty it seems can’t help but use bystanders as his chess pieces.”  
“Pawns.” John offered heavy heartedly.  
“Precisely, but… for him to use you, I… it didn’t seem like that would be part of the rules. It took but a split second to deduce you were strapped to the same bomb vest every prior victim had been suited with… and that one false move could destroy you.” Their eyes caught then, and Sherlock took that moment to really drop a part of his wall, his eyes reminded John of a child. “But you do understand, it was you, not some stranger, and yet, I had to gather up whatever courage I had to pretend that you were exactly what he saw you as. Just another human, another person, nothing more than collateral damage.”  
John swallowed but his throat was dry and he looked back down, pained by Sherlock’s honest deductions. Sherlock continues, “It was hopeless though, he’s seen through me long before this game started. I wouldn’t doubt that first day we met he was watching us both, all I knew was that I had to get you out John.”  
“Sherlock.” John said bluntly, reaching out and grasping his friend’s hand. “It’s alright. That’s enough.”  
Sherlock stared at John, his eyes returning to their typical cold state, and he soon looked down to observe John’s calloused hand gripping firmly to his own pale hand. It was quiet for a few moments and John’s hand turned till it comfortably held to Sherlock’s.  
“It won’t be the last time, but, I’m ready for it.” John sighed. “I’ll stand by you, no matter what gets in our way.”  
Sherlock’s fingers gently curled to meet with John’s and slowly slipped away as the taxi finally came to a halt, Sherlock exiting in a fluid manner. John looked up, and took in a breath, having to remind himself to pay the cabby, and join Sherlock on the side walk as they approached the door of 221B. Sherlock held the door open for John, and stepped inside after him. It was dark inside but John was familiar with their flat, he could jog the steps with his eyes closed if he had to. John unlocked their door and looked to Sherlock who took his time up the stairs, and was standing still a few steps behind him.  
A wave of concern hit the ex-army doctor and he turned to his flat mate. “Sherlock?”  
The pale man was still, calculative, and when his deep voice broke the silence, it sent a thrilling shiver up John’s spine. “What you said in the cab, about standing beside me… did you mean it?”  
John rocked on his heels out of habit as he contemplated Sherlock’s question. “Yes.” Was all he said.  
Sherlock then took his first steps toward the doorway of their flat, casually stating, “I believe that’s what normal people call a promise.” Sherlock stepped into their flat, removing his scarf and shrugging off his coat in practiced ease. “They tend to be broken quite easily.”  
John felt his left eye twitch as his fists clenched and he stepped into the flat, shutting the door behind him. “And what exactly do you mean by that, Sherlock?” He watched his friend look to him, but his expression wasn’t what John had expected, he seemed surprised at John’s reaction. “You know me, Sherlock, honestly, you probably know me better than anyone. I never have lied to you, for God’s sake, I’ve never run out on you, and things have just gotten to the point where I would be seen as insane for not leaving you now. You honestly think that everything I’ve told you tonight was a lie?”  
“John, I-“  
John shook his head in a fit of rage and stepped toward the tall thin man, causing Sherlock to take a step back against the wall. “There is no one I have ever had put my life down for other than you, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll do it again, you’re damn right I promise you that.” John found himself unable to control himself as he forcefully kissed his friend. He heard Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath, his body going stiff against his as the shock set in. John pulled back and looked to Sherlock, despite the darkness, he could see Sherlock’s pale skin had turned red in surprise, and his cold blue eyes looked right back into John’s dark blue ones.  
John stepped aside and made his way to his room, jogging up the stairs quickly and slamming his bedroom door behind him. He cursed at himself and sat back on his bed, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. There was no taking back his words, or the kiss, what was done was done, and John could only hope Sherlock would forgive him later. He finally lay back on his bed and welcomed sleep to come; he shut his eyes, longing for one last escape.


	2. I Won't Judge You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of Sway  
> On top of having nightmares of Moriarty, and confusion of his own feelings, John has to solve the mystery to Sherlock's juvenille cold shoulder and silent treatment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the hits a kudo's so far! I didn't think my fanfic would get that much attention, so thank you!!  
> This chapter is conciderably longer and I think you'll like it more than the first  
> More kissing and a hand job has been snuck in so read with caution  
> -FPx
> 
> Update: unfortunately I will not be continuing this story. It was bad preparation on my part, not to mention this is my first Sherlock fanfic ever. Thank you to everyone who read and left kudos! Sorry to disappoint. Please feel free to read my ongoing fanfiction If My Heart Should Somehow Stop (http://archiveofourown.org/works/486891/chapters/848656) I will be updating regularly, and yes, I will not drop this story! Thank you -FPx

The morning light shined through the blinds of John’s room, and a beautiful hum of music filled the flat. The ex-army doctor sat up with a tired groan, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he pondered over the awful nightmares he had just awoken from. He had tossed and turned the whole night through, the image of Moriarty haunting his dreams. He had been stabbed in the heart, he had seen Sherlock take a bullet through his skull, and he had even imagined the bomb vest detonating on his body. All of the horrible possibility’s that could have taken place last night, and yet he was still alive, in his familiar room, taking in the familiar smells of the flat, and hearing the melodious hum from Sherlock’s violin just downstairs.  
John kicked his legs out from beneath the covers and looked at his bedside clock, 7:30; he had only thirty minutes to prepare for work. John rolled his injured shoulder as he stood, and immediately regretted not getting up thirty minutes earlier to take that much needed bath. As he gazed at himself in his bedroom mirror, he took in the fact that he hadn’t even changed into proper pajamas before passing out that evening. He still wore his pale red cardigan, his plaid shirt and jeans that now had an awful stench.  
He quickly discarded the soiled clothing and looked through his cabinets for what decent clean clothing he had remaining. John lightly struck the top of the cabinet with his fist as he listened to the beautiful sound of the violin. Last night, he had jumped the gun, during his fit of rage, hurt, and passion he had kissed his friend, Sherlock Holmes. He swiftly pulled on a fresh shirt, feeling a cold sweat appear on his brow. Why had he done that? The very idea of being intimate with the machine like creature sent a repulsive shiver up his spine.  
John did what was only natural to him, excused his actions. He was beyond exhausted last night. He had done things that were out of character since surviving the meeting with James Moriarty, such as attacking Anderson. He always upheld a level of patience and control, but every barrier had been broken after that untimely event, it seemed at the time that there were no such things as boundaries. As John pulled on a pair of fresh jeans, he supposed Anderson had become a surrogate for Moriarty in his mind. The mad man had escaped and John needed to take out his anger on something, regrettably that something turned out to be Anderson.  
He shook his head in frustration as his conscience reminded him that he should feel ashamed for doing what he did. Sure, Anderson was a jerk and a moron, but John would never hurt him. Good luck telling him that now. He closed the drawers and shrugged on his grey vest. He really needed a cup of tea, but as he stepped toward the doorway of his room, the melody of the violin ringing through his ears, he ached at the idea of passing by Sherlock on his way to work.  
Alright, so he reasoned with himself the cause of his actions with Anderson last night, but, WHY had he KISSED his FLATMATE? John look up at the mold stained ceiling, and whispered a small prayer. “God, give me strength.” 

\---  
The tune Sherlock played on his violin was new to John; he figured he must be composing. John calmly made his way down the stairs, trying his best to stifle the creaks of the old staircase, thankful that Sherlock was playing at a louder scale. Once he reached the foot of the stairs he quietly sighed in relief at the sight of his unique flat mate playing in his typical spot beside the window. John nodded to himself and stealthily made his way to the kitchen, getting the kettle filled and on the stove. He collected his usual cup, pressed his back to the counter, and waited for the water to come to a boil.  
John took a moment to congratulate himself on getting passed Sherlock without any immediate interruption, though he was more that certain the consulting detective knew full well that he was there. Sherlock had changed into his usual evening robe, night pants and shirt, and he seemed silhouetted at the window as the morning sun continued to rise over Baker Street. John stared and wondered what had possibly come over him last night. He had been so offended by Sherlock’s harsh assumption that John would inevitably retreat from his side when things got dangerous.  
Although he could tell Sherlock didn’t mean it, he had still said it. Had the detective forgotten their first evening? It was the danger that kept him at Sherlock’s side; it’s what made them a perfect partnership. Last night was no different than the first in John’s mind, and he was ready to do it all again. He jumped a bit as the kettle began to whistle and Sherlock’s bow pulled away from the strings. John picked up the kettle and filled his cup with an air of frustration, he would have to talk to Sherlock about last night, and he didn’t like the idea at all.  
He decided to hide away in the kitchen for the time being. Though he longed to have a relaxing seat in his chair, he wanted to avoid talking to Sherlock as long as he possibly could. He watched the younger man set the instrument on his grey seat, and write a few notes down on the paper in the music stand. John found himself staring again as he sipped his hot cuppa.  
Certainly, Sherlock was remarkable, perfect, some might even say beautiful, but John had never once second guessed his sexuality, though many others have. That was all to be expected though, however frustrating it might be to John, they were two men sharing a flat, and their partnership was beyond typical, but John could honestly state as fact that there was nothing sensual between them. Sherlock was frankly repulsed by the idea of relationship’s, he had made it clear what he felt about John’s love life, not to mention their conversation of significant relationships the first day they had met.  
John felt his tension fade as he drank the hot tea, why was he getting so worked up about this? Sherlock Holmes was anything but sensitive, and as far as John was concerned, they’ve shattered all the icebreakers in their friendship. Perhaps the detective has simply forgotten and moved on. He was acting rather typical, John was the one who was worked up and treating this situation like some sort of crap telly soap opera. He felt he had reached some sort of resolution and finally gained enough courage to speak to Sherlock.  
“Morning Sherlock, would you like some tea?” John smiled as he reached for another cup from the cupboard. There had been no response from the living room, and John looked over his shoulder to see what Sherlock was doing. He saw the tip of his robe pass the opening of the kitchen, and he heard the loud familiar thump that could only be Sherlock’s body lay back on their couch. John shut the cabinet and held the empty cup in his hand, “Well?”  
Still no response. John shrugged it off, and set the cup back in the cupboard, taking his own cuppa in hand and stepping into the living room. Sherlock’s dark brown curls rested against the random assortment of pillows on the couch, and he had his left forearm rest over his eyes.  
John shifted his legs a bit, trying to decide what to say next. “Did you end up sleeping at all?”  
John was once again left in silence and this caused him to frown, he stared at his reclined flat mate who lay perfectly still, not even his toes were flexing like they usually would while Sherlock lay prone. John took a breath through his nose, looked at his watch, and decided he could rest in his seat for a few more minutes. His seat was a welcomed comfort, and he set his cuppa on the table beside him, picking up an old file, he had abandoned on table last night, and reorganizing it.  
John sipped his cuppa in comfort until the ever present silence began to be a bit… uncomfortable. He glanced once again at his flat mate who hadn’t moved a muscle, John tried to ignore him, but his ever active conscience was filling him with concern. John tried his best to shake it off, and at a second look to his wrist watch he found he was out of time. He quickly finished his cuppa, stood up and cleaned the kitchen a bit. He stepped back out into the living room and grabbed his coat, glancing one last time over to Sherlock.  
“Well, I’m off. I’ll be back this evening and we can get that report filed, ok?” John’s jaw set as the detective made no move and uttered not a sound in response. John pulled on his coat in frustration. “Alright, well… you just rest up and I’ll see you at five.”  
With that, John set out the door and off to work, trying his best to leave the new found complications of his domestic life behind him. He was used to Sherlock being quiet, but not that quiet. Sure he ignored John every now and again, but he would eventually come back to reality and either insult him or thank him. John took one last deep breath and hailed for a cab. Perhaps when he returned home tonight everything would be back to normal.

\---

A week had passed and Sherlock had stayed persistent in his oath of silence toward John. The ex-army doctor cannot remember a time in his life where he ever felt more frustrated, insulted, and belittled. He had returned that first evening to find Sherlock working on some sort of experiment, and after hours of asking Sherlock to join him to type up the report, (with absolutely no response from Sherlock) John had to rely on himself to write the entire file, having to revisit that horrible evening and events on his own.  
If Sherlock received a call from Lestrade he would answer in his typical suave manner, hang up, not share one detail about the new case to John, and either solve it in the flat, or step out on his own. John had grown so stubborn that despite the fact that he currently hated Sherlock’s silent presence, he would follow him out, trek the streets of London with no clue as to what they were looking for, and return to the flat to have Sherlock phone Lestrade with all the obvious deductions he had found, and close the case.  
John couldn’t believe the length’s Sherlock had gone to too literally shut him out of his life. They lived under the same roof, drank from the same kettle, hell, John paid for everything, and yet Sherlock insisted on giving him the ultimate cold shoulder. What had he done to deserve this? The man was literally trying to break John apart; he was so frustrated with being completely shut out of Sherlock’s inner circle that he couldn’t even enjoy spending evenings with Sarah.  
Despite the frustrations John dealt with at home, work stayed ever predictable to his relief, and time spent behind his desk allowed him to try and figure out what exactly was wrong with Sherlock. The visions of Moriarty were still present in John’s nightmares and in fact had become worse since Sherlock shut him out. John knew that something Moriarty said that night triggered Sherlock’s child-like behavior, and only John could figure out what it was.  
John did his best to remember everything the psychopath had said, and after a few days it all started to become very clear.  
‘No one ever gets to me.’ John reflected on Moriarty’s words. Sherlock is the most brilliant man John has ever known, but he had begun to wonder if anyone could possibly be more brilliant than him. It was hard to imagine anyone outsmarting Sherlock Holmes, but if there was someone who could, John didn’t doubt it would be James Moriarty. They had seen the man’s strategy of assault, the fact that he was completely unpredictable, illogical, and ready to bend the rules where he saw fit.  
This triggered something else from John’s memory, the night in the cab when Sherlock had said, ‘for him to use you, I… it didn’t seem like that would be part of the rules.’ Yes, there it was, the proof of what John had feared was fact in Sherlock’s mind. ‘All those little problems.’ John laid his head in his hands and took a few deep breaths. It was true, it had to be, John had become Sherlock’s single weakness, his Achilles heel in this game. Sherlock was protecting him, but also protecting himself in order to beat Moriarty.  
John’s sympathy quickly turned into anger, and he left work without notice, too furious to bother with social etiquette when his own friend was trying to remove him from his existence entirely. It took only 20 minutes for the cab to pull up to Baker Street, and John was grateful to see Mrs. Hudson was out at Tesco. He looked up the flight of stairs, to the doorway of their flat, and felt his fists clench tight. He took little time to get up the stairs and open the door, slamming it behind him.  
He saw Sherlock being as useless as always, sitting in his seat, plucking the strings of that damned violin. He didn’t even tilt his head to look at John; he remained staring at the wall, unemotional and stoic. Seeing Sherlock like this, after what John has just discovered, it was like adding gasoline to the flame, and he made no effort to choose his words carefully.  
“Look at me, Sherlock Holmes!” Sherlock made no effort, which was hardly a surprise to John who made his way to face the detective and rip the instrument from his hands which finally triggered a reaction from his flat mate. “I. Said. Look. At. Me!”  
With what appeared to be dramatized effort, Sherlock rolled his head to the side slightly, and slowly raised it up so his eyes now directly met John’s. John hadn’t expected it and to finally look into Sherlock’s crystal eyes after days of dismissal was a reward in itself, but then he saw the arrogant bastard fold his hands together and rest them beneath his chin, and the happiness was fleeting.  
“I won’t allow you to treat me like this anymore, you have been nothing but a childish moron for the past week, and I am sick of it! I take it you plan to continue on like this till I have no other choice but to move out as a result of poor mental health but I know exactly what you’re trying to do, and I will not let it happen!”  
“What on Earth are you going on about John?” The pale creature asked with not an ounce of care in his deep voice.  
“You know exactly what I’m talking about you impossible git!” John turned and shoved the violin onto his seat with as much care as he could muster in his fit of rage. “You and Moriarty’s game! Our friendship! The fact that you have made an executive decision that I have no place in your life!”  
John was surprised when he saw Sherlock stand, the man was impossibly tall and yet so fluid in his movements, sometimes he didn’t seem human. There was emotion in Sherlock’s eyes and it caused John’s rage to temper just a little bit as at long last Sherlock’s attention, emotions, and eyes were directly on him. He took a short step back as Sherlock stepped toward him, brow furrowed and eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and anger.  
“An executive decision?” His deep calm tone repeated.  
“Yes, your ridiculous display of the silent treatment, not letting me in, completely shutting me out from everything you have going on!” John felt himself choke a bit on the last part of the sentence and he was surprised at himself as he felt an ache fill in his throat.  
Sherlock’s eyes calmed with practiced ease and his lips turned into a sly smirk. “Simple John, what are you on about?”  
John felt the pain in his throat tighten as he looked deep into Sherlock’s eyes. The word’s that he spoke hurt John to the core, and that smirk, that awful smirk, made him want to take him down the way he had Anderson seven nights before. John knew better though and he hadn’t even said what he had needed to say yet. He had held back on the words that he aimed to say, the accusation that had to be made of his cold and heartless friend.  
“Just let it out, Sherlock. You agree with that psychopath. I’m your little problem you need to get rid of in order to win this game.”  
He didn’t want to regret what he said, he wanted to be the stronger of the two, but when John saw the cocky smile slowly fade from Sherlock’s lips, he finally felt that familiar pain in his throat result in water filling his eyes.  
“I never said-“  
John’s voice quickly cut Sherlock off and it shook in an uncharacteristic manner and John let out the last painful words, “You didn’t have to say it, Sherlock. You never mean for things to turn out like this, but they do.” John caught the tears before they dripped from his lashes. “Frankly, I wish you had just gone right out and said it that night in the cab, it’s all you could think about, I know I’m right.”  
Sherlock was clearly perplexed, and John could still not see any trace of sympathetic emotion from Sherlock’s face. John’s emotions were completely betraying him and he turned to go to his room before the tears streamed down his face. He saw Sherlock’s large hands and felt them grasp onto his coat, and John jerked back in a boiling rage.  
“Don’t touch me!” John nearly screamed in hate, but the hand’s he expected to surrender only held on to him and John growled and faced his flat mate. John’s face was red and cheeks were covered in hot tears, he didn’t want Sherlock seeing him like this, and he couldn’t fucking stop the tears from falling. Then he felt the detectives long arms loop around his body, and pulling close. John’s breath suddenly became shaky, and he looked up at Sherlock in confusion. Then their lips were pressed together, and it was John’s turn to be shocked, he pulled away. “Wh-what the hell are you doing-“  
Sherlock was persistent and his lips quickly returned to John’s as he held on to him a bit awkwardly. John had never been more confused, and the kiss was strange, granted he wasn’t kissing in return so that was to be expected. Then he felt Sherlock pull away.  
“Shut up.” The detective ordered softly, his bright blue eyes dilated and piercing through John.  
The ex-army doctor huffed gently, heart pounding loud and fast, tears persisting on their fall. “Wh-what?”  
Sherlock raised a hand from John’s back, stroking it passed his ear and through his hair, letting his thumb touch one of John wet hot cheeks. “You’re thinking, it’s annoying.”  
John breathed out a shaky whimper, the soles of his feet finally resting level on the ground. “Sh-Sherlock..”  
Then their lips were pressed together once more, and John felt himself let out a deep breath, and ease into the kiss with Sherlock. With John’s participation, the kiss became much less awkward, deep, and wet. John’s grip on Sherlock’s coat relaxed and he breathed out once more to accept the sensual attention Sherlock was adorning on his lips and face. He wanted to speak, he wanted to think, he wanted to rip himself away again and tell himself this wasn’t right, that it felt horrible, and was wrong, but they were just excuses, and John was exhausted with excusing himself.  
Sherlock’s arm eased around John’s torso, and the hand stroked up his back and across his side. John looked to him as their lips parted for but a split second and John could see honesty in Sherlock’s eyes, had Sherlock been longing for this? John stroked Sherlock’s neck, feeling the elevated pulse and bit his inner lip as he felt his groin grow a bit excited. John kissed Sherlock with parted lips, tasting his breath and feeling his tongue against his own, he felt his hair, and drew him closer as they indulged in each other’s mouth.  
John felt Sherlock raise his hands to John’s coat collar, and John knew what he was asking. He withdrew his arms from Sherlock for a moment, allowing the large coat to slide off his body, glad to feel Sherlock’s arms not leaving his sides. He took the liberty of unbuttoning Sherlock’s suit jacket and shirt, allowing Sherlock to pull them off and have them drop to the floor. They were close and stared at one another, John’s heart still pounding fast and hard, the blood travelling further to his southern regions.  
He took in the half naked detective, and for a split second couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d never seen Sherlock so vulnerable, and the fact that he wanted to be like this before John seemed like some sort of honor. Sherlock’s large hands met with John’s sides and he lifted his shirt, feeling his stomach and below.  
“Sherlock.” Was all John could breathe, and he didn’t know why this all was turning him on so much. He grasped Sherlock’s forearm and their eye’s caught again, and they instinctively knew that everything would be alright, they could trust each other. Sherlock’s hands began unbuckling John’s belt and John let out a breath he didn’t even realize he had been holding on to. His button was pulled away and he heard the familiar sound of the zipper being dropped.  
Sherlock pressed John’s body up against the wall and listened to his panted breath. He pressed a hand against the wall beside John’s head and felt his friends hand’s rise and hold to his back. Sherlock took the liberty of sorting through John’s trousers and pants for his hard length to stand freely. John could have sworn he heard a soft shutter come from Sherlock’s lips but before it could all register, he felt Sherlock’s large pale hand take his length and begin to stroke.  
John gasped out at the initial touch and he groaned as Sherlock’s hand moved. He’s knees felt a bit weak as he allowed his friend to touch that most sensitive part of him and it made him let out a strained moan. He felt up Sherlock’s back, which was surprisingly soft. He let his hands wander, and he stroked over his chest and nipples, taking in a gentle groan from Sherlock. John gasped as Sherlock teased his head and he thrust against the hand out of instinct.  
“Oh, fuck, Sherlock.” John groaned out, and began to undo Sherlock’s trousers. He hurriedly shoved down the pants, at times glancing down to see Sherlock stroking him ever so steady, and soon he had Sherlock’s longer cock in his hand as well. The sound that came from Sherlock made John blush and he joined Sherlock in the steady stroking.  
Sherlock’s free hand gripped to the back of John’s head, and they kissed passionately, their strokes becoming quicker. John bit at Sherlock lower lip and he clung to the man’s dark curls, being rewarded with more deep throated moans from the usually quiet man. Sherlock thrust up against John’s hand with less control than John had, and he panted and grunted in heat. John’s heart pounded louder than before, and soon they were both thrusting against each other’s hands in uncontrolled male lust.  
“John.” Sherlock moaned out, his free hand gripping to John’s neck tightly. “John. Yes!”  
John gasped hot as both of their thrusts became quick and erratic and the familiar heat pooled into the base of John’s groin.  
“A-ah, Sherlock!” John shouted as he released into Sherlock’s hand and continued to jerk until he was emptied. He felt Sherlock come as well, in reaction to John’s orgasm. They both gasped hot until their orgasm’s subsided and they were both pressed against the wall, Sherlock’s arms up against it, shielding John as they pressed their sweated foreheads up against the other.  
They simply leaned there, both their knees limp and slightly trembling, and the smell was all familiar and at the same time new to John, because Sherlock’s scent was mixed with the sex, and he had never smelt anything so wanton. He felt up and down Sherlock’s torso with his clean hand, seeing as the man was having a harder time steadying his breath. The beat of his heart was rapid and John laid a gentle kiss on his temple and stroked his hair as Sherlock’s head lowered to rest against his chest.  
“Sherlock… it’s alright.” John spoke between gulps of air. “Breathe.”  
Sherlock’s breath soon steadied and he held to John’s shoulders. “John, you’re wrong. You’re wrong about everything.”  
John allowed himself to huff out a short chuckle. “Everything?”  
“Yes.” Sherlock panted gently, standing up strait again, looking down as his friend. “I will win this game, but I can’t do it without you beside me, John.” He placed a kiss on John’s reddened lips. “You are not a weakness, John, you’re my reason to keep going.”  
John shook his head in disbelief and couldn’t help but chuckle again. Were these words really coming from the lips of Sherlock Holmes? John felt like this all must be some sort of hideous fantasy, was he asleep back at the hospital? Then he saw Sherlock look him dead in the eye, seeming taken aback by his enlightened laughing.  
“Then… then why were you ignoring me, Sherlock? This entire week!” John spoke between chuckles but then a touch of anger revisited on the last sentence.  
Sherlock gazed down. “I admit, it wasn’t my most mature way of handling things, but, I was scared. Have you forgotten you kissed me for the first time seven days ago?”  
John was caught off guard. “That… that’s why you were ignoring me?”  
“You should know better, John. I didn’t know how else to react to that sort of intimacy.” Sherlock huffed matter-of-factly.  
John let out one last laugh. “Are you sure about that? ‘Cause look at what we just did, Sherlock. I think you have a pretty good strategy on handling intimacy.”  
“That was only after a week’s worth of extended study, John.” Sherlock said, brow furrowed.  
Another blush fell upon John’s face. He really had sent Sherlock over the edge, all from an insignificant kiss that now seemed very significant. John thought about what to say but then just smiled, “So, you actually have been busy this week.”  
“Very studious, in fact, John.” Sherlock boasted with a grin, kissing him once more, lustfully and passionately.  
A shiver went through John and he kissed back softly until Sherlock pulled away. “Let’s get cleaned up, Sherlock.”

\---

Once Sherlock had changed into his pajamas and night robe, and John had taken a relaxing bath, they visited in the living room. Sherlock explained the past week of cases he had successfully solved whilst John had been left out of the loop. John was grateful and typed what information he could to add to the blog over the weekend. Sherlock followed him as he began to explain the newest case that Lestrade had offered them, and what role John would inevitably play over the next few days.  
John smiled, feeling more cheerful then he had been in the past week in a half, he prepared their tea, listening to Sherlock blabber on excitedly about all the current deductions he had gathered until John turned and pressed his lips up against Sherlock’s. The detective immediately went silent with surprise but soon kissed John back in return. When their lips parted, Sherlock stared deeply at his now chuffed John.  
“I always have found your deductions remarkable and fascinating… but only now I realize that they are a real turn on.”  
Sherlock grinned, and John can’t recall a time when Sherlock had seemed more carefree. As they both sat down in their seats, fighting not to stare at one another, John thought about the next steps he would inevitably have to take to stay beside Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
